


Crescendo

by unscriptedemily



Series: Sonataverse [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pianist, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Dates, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Knitting, M/M, Miscommunication, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, but ed being a music nerd makes me very happy, disclaimer: i know nothing about classical music, guess what lads it's tragic backstory time, shit's about to get deep, these tags are here for a reason ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unscriptedemily/pseuds/unscriptedemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Knitting," says Ed, and goes bright red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crescendo

**Author's Note:**

> alternatively titled "roy tries to be a gentleman and ed does not appreciate his efforts"  
> here it is: the sequel to [this thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605054). this started off cute and then suddenly everything turned into Deep Shit Tragic Angst and i was like. oh. okay. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> also: i literally know FUCK ALL about music!!! i played piano for like a year when i was thirteen!! _i don't know anything about anything_!!!! just pretend that everything is accurate it'll be fine (????) additionally;; i talk about some Actual Real Pieces Of Music in this  & i have no idea abt the like ~*~historical impacts~*~ or whatever of any of them i just found them on youtube and thought they sounded cool please dont read too deeply into them there is no symbolism there haha
> 
> Hope u enjoy this !! u guys are great <333333

 

It’s the last day of the first month of the new year, and Ed is running late.

Almost catastrophically late.

“Fucking- piece of shit- _fuck_ -,”

He’s kneeling on the kitchen floor- and he wishes that was a euphemism- giving himself an aneurysm over this fucking sheet music, and he has five minutes until he’s officially late for his concert.  
fuck.

“Come on,” he mutters, stretching his fingertips the last- fucking- inch-, “Come on-,”

His fingers brush the edges of the paper. He’s holding his breath so hard it _hurts_.

“ _Finally_!”

He snags the sheet music from where it lies, crumpled and forlorn, down behind the fridge, and sits back, brandishing it above his head, not caring about the dust on his nice suit- on second thoughts, it’s the one Roy gave him for his birthday. Shit, shit, shit.

Ed jumps up, paper clenched securely in his fist, and brushes off the worst of the dust. It’s fine. It’ll be fine; the sage lights always make shit look weird, it’ll be fine. If Al was here, he’d be able to help out. Ed takes a moment to lament the fact that Al is off gallivanting around Germany instead of coming to his con-

 Wait. Shit. The _concert_.

The clock on the wall reads _12:08,_ and he has two minutes until he is officially, unequivocally, non-negotiably _late as fuck_.

“Oh, fucking _Christ_ ,” Ed moans, and sprints for the door.

 

***

 

It’s all Roy’s fault.

Ed decided that on the way over; the taxi driver, luckily, had interpreted his stormy silence as _don’t talk to me_ and hadn’t tried to make casual small talk, which is great because Ed fucking _sucks_ at small talk. Roy keeps trying to teach him how to socialise, but he’s never gotten the hang of it. Mostly he just finds alcohol and keeps knocking back drinks until he starts finding things funny.

Right. Roy.

It’s _all_ Roy’s fault. If he’d been there- if Roy’d actually _been_ there, in the flat, doing his dumb _god-I- love-you-darling-but-please-don’t-make-us-any-more-late-than-we-are-already_ smile- this never would’ve happened.  
 If he hadn’t been at the office today _,_ Ed wouldn’t have forgotten his sheet music, because he wouldn’t have been distracted by Roy texting him with a detailed description of his boss’ moustache, and he wouldn’t have almost _died_  laughing- another thing that’s Roy’s fault; he’s stupidly fucking hilarious.  
And if Ed hadn’t forgotten his sheet music, he wouldn’t have had to call _another_ cab to get him _back_  to their flat to pick up the stupid goddamn sheet music, and he wouldn’t have spent ten minutes tearing the place apart looking for it only to find it stuffed down the back of the _fridge,_ of all places, and-

The stage lights are shining in his eyes. Who programmed these things, anyway? His fingers are dancing over the keys, and some people in the audience are looking at him kind of concerned-ish, and Ed kind of wants to curl up in a ball and have Roy hold him and pet his hair and make stupid sappy declarations of undying love for a little while. Or a long while. Whatever.

He blows out his breath, sending his bangs fluttering away from his face, and picks up speed.

Sure, it’s not entirely traditional for this kind of melody to be played at this tempo, and it’s kinda frowned upon to add in your own chords and notes on the left hand, to pick out just a _slightly_ different bass line, to twist and turn the music to fit your own rhythm.  
And It’s not really regarded highly for you to change a musical masterpiece into your very own rollercoaster ride of emotional turmoil and goddamn _badass_ chord patterns- but, hell, Ed’s never really been one for caring what the critics say.

By the time he slows his hands and eases slowly back into the original piece- just in time for a smooth, resounding _coda-_ he’s breathing a little easier, and his ribcage doesn’t feel like it’s become sentient and is trying to crush his organs one by one.

The applause is a thunderstorm, as usual, but Ed can see the disapproving looks, the shaking heads, the outright _glares_ of the pretentious-dick-music-connoisseurs  and he grins, sharp and wicked, showing them his teeth.  
Who the fuck cares if he just made a badass piece even _more_ badass? It’s his fuckin’ stage.

He walks off with a wave and a salute, and the first thing he does when he gets to the dressing room is swipe his thumb across his phone screen to unlock it and text Roy.

 _hey dumbass,_ he types, _concert went fine NO THANKS TO YOU i got glared at by music critics again so that was funny_

He stares at the little _sending_ symbol at the top until it disappears, and then he stares at the message box instead. What if Roy’s in a meeting or something? What if his phone is off? What if he’s reconsidered this whole thing- apartment, piano, suit and all- and has fled to the Czech Republic in order to be rid of Ed and Ed’s fucking neuroses forever?

His phone buzzes.

 _Oh dear,_ Roy sends, and Ed can _feel_ his amused smile through the pixels, the bastard, _I hope you didn’t annoy them too badly. And what do you mean, ‘all thanks to me’? I don’t think I’ve done anything to merit your fury_ that _recently, love._

‘Love’. “Fucking ridiculous,” Ed mutters as he types back furiously, but he can’t stop the tiny grin unfurling, or the warm flush across his cheekbones.

 _ur such a dick_ , he says, _but i guess i kinda like that. when will u get back from the BORING ASS OFFICE WORKDAY FROM HELL ????im expecting takeout. and i mean ALL THANKS TO YOU because u distracted me from my vry important concert prep shit this mrning & i almost forgot my fuckin sheet music. not that i need it. but still. u suck_

He hits send, sits back, and waits. His blood fizzes in anticipation. Fuck.

_Mm, I’m actually just about to leave. I’ll pick up takeout form that Chinese place down the road, shall I? Is the usual alright? My deepest apologies about this morning, by the way. I suppose I just assumed that you would’ve gotten everything ready the night before, like any organised, practical person would. (And you’re damn right I suck. I suck very well, as you know by now <3)_

Fucking _Roy_ and his fucking _grammar_ and his fucking _innuendos_ ; Ed’s pretty sure this isn’t any kind of fair.

 _1)fuck you. Im organised! Im so fucking organised ive ORGANISED that you wont be giving OR getting any blowjobs ever again bc im gonna shove my metal fist down ur throat !!!!_  That should do it, Ed thinks, cooling off his blush with said metal fist. _2)the usual plus extra egg fried rice. also duck pancakes i fucking love duck pancakes. 3)maybe ill reconsider knocking all ur teeth out if u take the day off work tomorrow. we should do something IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN_

Ed hits send, but doesn’t give Roy a chance to reply before adding, _4)also ur a dumbass <3333, _because, heck, there are many ways of saying _I love you_ and even though they’ve been dating for just over a year, now, Ed still hasn’t found the right one.

Maybe it would be easier just to say it, like Roy does, loud and clear and unafraid: Ed, I love you.

He tries to imagine it, how it would go.

 Roy, I love you. Roy, I’m so in love with you. Roy, our first date was kind of terrible and kind of incredible, and I’ve loved you since I first saw you in that bigass auditorium. Roy, we argue a lot, and I fuck things up a lot, but I love you, and that’s what counts, right?

“I’m so bad at this,” he mutters, and the lopsided clock hanging on the bac of the door says he’s been here two hours and it’s time to go home and eat takeout and make dumb jokes and let Roy wrap his arms around him and forget the world.

His phone buzzes again.

_Your threats are always creative, but I have to say, you’ve reached a new level with that one. You would sabotage yourself in order to knock me down a peg (or should I say tooth?)? How very noble. ;)_

The winky face means that Roy is joking, and that this message should be read in his light, teasing voice, instead of his cold, mocking voice, which is a different thing altogether. Another message pops up on the screen before Ed can even tap the keyboard, and he wrinkles his nose. Stupid roy.

_That said, I think I’ll tell Riza I’m not coming in tomorrow. I feel like we haven’t had a whole day together for months_ _L I’m sorry my workload is so big at the moment, love. I swear, as soon as this load of paperwork is finished, I’m quitting and we can move to Italy and live out the rest of our days relaxing on a gondola, watching the sun set <33333_

Ed breaks into the widest, most ridiculous grin he’s ever broken into before he can stop himself, and he actually has to close his goddamn eyes for a second before replying.

_You’re such a dumbass <33333333_

And that says a lot, in Ed-speak, but it doesn’t say _enough_ , and Ed is typing again, chest physically fucking _aching_ with the wealth of _I am so lucky, Roy is so perfect, what did I do to deserve this_ pounding inside him.

_Its not ur fault ur too successful roy don’t fuckin worry about me u just carry on earning that cash okay. Italy sounds fun but im not sure about the sunset can we go see the amphitheatres instead ??_

And then, in a burst of _oh, fuck it,_ he tacks onto the end of the text:

_love you <3_

and hits send.

And then he stuffs his phone in his pocket, hoists his bag onto his shoulder, and legs it out of the prep room and down the corridor into the foyer. Karin’s there; she smiles at him as he passes and his blush deepens- of _course_ it does- and his outside, cold air hitting him like a thump to the solar plexus. He takes a deep breath, holds it, tries not to scream.  
There’s a taxi dawdling on the corner. He slides in, shuts the door behind him, somehow manages to force out his and Roy’s address and then he’s squeezing his eyes shut, so damn conscious of the phone in his pocket, hard edge against his hipbone, and Roy, miles away, but drawing nearer with every spin of the car wheels and every carbon dioxide exhaust fume trailing out behind them.

It’s so _fucking_ stupid, that Ed would feel like this, so happy, so fucking _happy_ , just because of one human being.  
Actually, sometimes he isn’t sure that Roy _is_ a human being; some days he looks carved from marble, and some days the light hits him _just so_ and he’s abso-fucking-lutely _mythic_ ; Ed’s no good at this poetry crap but Roy- Roy makes him want to compose sonatas, symphonies; Roy makes him want to just _melt_.

Roy makes his heart so _full_ , that every argument, every piece of burnt toast, every fight that leaves a sour taste in Ed’s mouth and a silent chasm stretching out between them- every single shitty thing that’s ever tried to trip them up and break them apart _just doesn’t matter_.  
 It’s like when you get two lego bricks and you stick ‘em together and no matter how hard you pull your fingers can’t get purchase and you’re never strong enough to pull them back into their separate parts.

Ed can’t quite believe he just spent five minutes comparing his and Roy’s relationship to fucking _lego_ , but then again, he couldn’t quite believe that they would ever end up this happy (especially not after that fucking _disaster_ of a first date), and, well- that fucking happened, didn’t it?

 

***********************************************************************************************************

 

 

_“See you Saturday,”_

As Ed walks away from Roy, flowers clenched tight in his fist, he starts to grin. And once he’s started to grin, he can’t seem to _stop_ , and then he’s walking out into the cold, pure air, and Al and Winry are huddled by the corner shooting anxious glances at the main doors, and when he walks towards them they spot him and Winry takes one look at his grin and a smile of her own starts to unfurl, and Al is raising his eyebrows in a _wow, Brother, you didn’t fuck it up! Well done!_ Expression, and Ed-

Ed starts to laugh.

“You look like a crazy person,” Winry remarks, grabbing his arm and dragging the three of them over to the wall, “But I guess laughing means it…went well?”

Ed shakes his head, still grinning.

Al’s eyebrows become concerned. “Why are you shaking your head, brother?” he asks, slowly, and starts to stiffen, looking over the top of Ed’s head to the main doors. Ed can practically see the anger start to build in his eyes.

“Wait, Al,” he says, hitting his brother in the arm with the flowers in an attempt to quench his thirst for Roy’s ( _Roy_ , his name is _Roy_ , Roy Mustang, Roy Mustang who has asked you on a date and has been giving you flowers every week for the past month or so) blood, “I- it- it was- I have a _date_.”

Slowly, the fury in Al’s gaze begins to leech away, replaced by benign puzzlement. Sometimes, Ed is really, really glad that Al’s on _his_ side.

“A date? So it _did_ go well!”

“I…guess?” About as well as could be expected of someone with such an impressive track record of scoring Good Dates as Ed. Namely, _zero_.

It’s Winry’s turn to look puzzled. “You guess? You got a date; that’s- unless you don’t _want_ go on a date, in which case let me back in there to knock that guy’s teeth out-,”

“Why is everyone so fucking eager to maim him?” Ed asks, “ _no,_ Win, I wanna go. I mean, I think I do. Yeah. I do. Just…”

Al’s expression clears, softens, and he looks into Ed’s eyes, nodding. “Brother, you don’t have to be scared,” he says. “You’re not going to screw it up.”

Winry makes a noise like _ohhh_ and claps him on the shoulder. Hard. As he glares in her direction, she says, “Is that what you’re worried about? God, Ed, you’re- you’re _amazing_ , the guy is damn lucky you even _looked_ at him! You’ll be _fine_. Just try to have fun!”

Have fun? The last time Ed had fun, it had involved two three-thousand page books on musical theory, a machete, and copious amounts of alcohol. Somehow, he didn’t think it would be appropriate to take a _machete_ to a steakhouse. He tells Winry this, and she raises an eyebrow.

“The steakhouse?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, “apparently there’s a steakhouse like a few blocks from here. Roy mentioned it, and he’s, like, _refined_ and shit, so it’s probably not gonna let me walk in with a fucking ma-,”

“Never heard of it,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “You’d have thought he’d pick somewhere _nice_ for your first date, right Al?”

Al hums thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he says, “I think Brother is probably better off somewhere less well-known; that way even if he embarrasses himself it won’t be _too_ bad.”

Winry nods, eyebrows furrowing thoughtfully. “You’re right, I didn’t think about it like that,” she says.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Ed demands. “Fuck both of you. I’m never talking to you again.”

Al just laughs.

 

 

***

 

It’s the day of the concert- you know, _the concert_ \- and Ed feels like if he moves, he’ll throw up everything he’s ever eaten up to this point in time.

“I can’t,” he says, and Al, standing at the foot of the couch, folds his arms.

“Brother.”

“I _can’t_ , Al. This is stupid. I’m not going.”

“You _need_ to go, Brother, you’re getting paid for this, and the heating’s broken.”

Ed clutches the sofa cushion closer to his chest, and makes a strangled whining noise.

“Brother.”

“But _Al_ ,” he says, muffled because of the sofa arm pressing into his face, “We don’t _really_ need money yet. Do we? I mean, if the worst comes to the worst, we can just sell _this_ apartment and get a different one. We don’t need this much space. I could just put the piano on eBay, fuck knows I’m never playing it ever again-,”

“Brother, you’re being a drama queen. Get up, we need to go.”

Goddamn it.

Ed peeks over the edge of the arm of the sofa, and fixes Al with his best pathetic-puppy-face.

Predictably, Ed’s little brother is unmoved.

God _damn_ it.

“I hate you,” Ed says, dragging himself upright, “I hate you so much.”

“I love you too, Brother,” says Al, and shoves an armful of freshly laundered clothes at him. “Put these on, we’re going to be late.”

 

***

For once, Al wasn’t perfectly on-target with his prediction. They aren’t late- but maybe it would’ve been better if they _had_ been, because Ed’s _help-I’m-about-to-puke_ feeling has evolved from, you know, an exaggeration into a legitimate concern, and the impending stage-time isn’t really helping with that.

God fucking _damn it,_ Roy.

He’d texted him when they were in the car on the way over; Ed almost dropped his phone when it came through, and- god _damn it_ , Roy- his fingers had been shaking as he’s opened up the message.

(Part of him hates this, hates that Roy has so much power over him already, hates that he can’t stop himself from feeling sick to his stomach when he thinks about _dating_ and _belonging to someone_ and becoming another fucking _object_ on someone’s cluttered fucking _shelf_ )

_Are we still okay for this evening? If not, that’s absolutely fine!_

‘That’s absolutely fine’? What does that mean? Does Roy _want_ him to back out? Ed scowls. Why can’t people just say what they _mean_ , instead of dancing around the subject? Life would be a hell of a lot easier if people could just outright _say_ whatever the fuck they’re thinking. It’s what Ed does.  
(In hindsight, although Ed doesn’t see anything wrong with it, he has a sneaking suspicion that not everyone would see brutal honesty as a good thing. What Ed sees as ‘telling the truth’, Al usually calls out as being ‘rude’ and ‘tactless’, and ‘brother, there are better ways to let someone know you think their tie clashes with their outfit’.)

_yeah sure im still good to go are u sure ur still cool w it_

_Definitely_ _J It would be an understatement to say that I’m looking forward to it!_

Ed wrinkles his nose, patting at his cheeks with the automail to cool them off. What the _fuck?_ You can’t just come out with things like that, can you? That’s gotta be illegal, right?

_jeez ur so sappy youve only known me for like 5 minutes. altho im looking forward to it too_

Al always says that Ed comes across as kind of brash in his texts. Should he add something to it? An emoji? Roy did that dumb smiley face; should Ed…? No, shit, that would be tantamount to pretending to be someone he isn’t; emojis have no goddamn place in his texting repertoire and he isn’t about to start including them for the sake of one fucking conversation-

_haha_

That’s better.

 _I’ll see you after the performance, then,_ Roy’s text reads _, The other audience members are glaring at me; I suppose they’re objecting to my phone light. See you soon! X_

For a moment, Ed forgets how to breathe- which is ridiculous, since breathing is a subconscious action, and- _Roy put an X at the end of his text_.

An X. That means something, doesn’t it? That _means_ something; that means, like, _feelings_ , and shit, doesn’t it? Or is it just a thing that Roy does with everyone? He seems like the kind of person who’d put kisses at the end of texts, in a mocking kind of way. He’s probably smirking right now.  
 Is this some kind of test? Is Ed supposed to reply? But wait, Roy said he had to turn his phone off, didn’t he? So is Ed supposed to just leave it? Should he confront Roy tonight? _Tonight._ A fucking _date_. Ed still can’t quite believe that this is happening. He’s got a date. The full reality of it is only just starting to hit him, like he’s standing on the beach and the smaller waves preceding the tsunami are just hitting his feet.

Is it overkill to be comparing his impending date to a natural disaster? It is, isn’t it? On the other hand, this is _him,_ and he fucks up _everything_. It’s a wonder he’s still alive; it’s a wonder _any_ of them are still alive. Especially after- well. After.

Oh, shit, what if he fucks _this_ up, too? What if the thing happens, and he starts panicking? No. Oh, god, no, that can’t happen; that hasn’t happened in a while- well, in two days- so he should be safe, right?

He’s going to fuck it up. He’s going to fuck it up, and Roy’s going to give him that look, that half pity half disgust _look_ , and Ed will probably scream or something because he can’t fucking deal with that _look_ anymore from anyone else-

“Brother, we’re here! Brother?”

Al is grasping his arm, staring concernedly at him. “Brother?”

“I’m fine,” Ed gasps out. “Fuckin’…perfect. Let’s go.”  
  
“O…kay, Brother, that’s fine, just- yes, mind the curb; Brother, you’re dropping sheet music everywhere- here, let me- Brother just slow down a second, Brother-,”

It’ll be fine, won’t it?

Won’t it?

A little voice in the back of Ed’s head says, _no_.

He swallows, teeth pressing into his lip hard enough to draw blood. And keeps walking.

Head down, shoulders hunched.

Onwards. To victory, or possibly crushing defeat in the form of public humiliation and overwhelming shame.

Yeah.                                                                                        

****

He remembers nothing of the performance itself. This in itself isn’t unusual; as lot of the time he just kind of retreats into his own head and lets the music sort itself out, but today was- different.

Good different or bad different, Ed can’t say for sure.

Roy’s eyes had found him straight away, of course; and Ed had met the midnight gaze head on as he walked out onto the polished stage. The piano, glossy dark wood and ivory keys, casting a soft splash of shadow into the wings. The pedals shone dull bronze in the dim lighting. Ed’s head span.

He remembers sitting down, placing his fingers over the keys, thinking about how cold they were to touch and wishing he’d had more time to practice on them, and then- nothing. Nothing at all.

Just Roy at his back, and a kind of sharp silence in his chest.

The applause carried him out of there, but all Ed could think about was how fucking _ill_ he felt.

Not much he can do about it now, though; Al’s taking all his shit out of his hands and chivvying him towards the foyer doors.

“Text me,” he says, by way of parting words, and Ed nods, feeling momentarily reassured. Al’s got his back. He always seems to forget that, but that’s the universal truth, isn’t it? If it all goes to shit- as it has so many times before- Al will be there to pick up the pieces.

Ed doesn’t deserve to have a little brother as good as the one he does. His stomach twists, settles. It’s just a date. Fucking hell, it’s just a _date_ , it’s just another goddamn date and the sooner he gets it over with the easier it will be to deal with the inevitable fucking rejectio-

Standing by the flower cart across the room, hair rumpled and cheeks faintly flushed from the cold, Roy lifts a hand in greeting, smiles.

Oh. Oh, shit.

***

Roy is a shitty driver.

Ed finds that out very quickly indeed, and to be fair, it’s not as if he wasn’t forewarned; before he stepped into the vehicle Roy had cleared his throat, looked over the top of the car at him kind of sheepishly, and said “I suppose this is as good a time as any to apologise in advance for my driving, isn’t it?”. Ed had laughed, and Roy had offered to call a cab, and Ed had thought _well, damn, Jackie, you can’t be_ that _bad, surely_ or something to that effect, and then he’d got in the car and told Roy that he was fucking starving and if they didn’t get the fuck on with it and _go_ then he was going to steal a car and drive himself. (An empty threat; he never even bothered learning to drive after- after.)  
  
Shit.

 No, really, _shit,_ both a description of Roy’s expertise behind the wheel and the stabbing sinking shit-filled wound burning its way through Ed’s guts; he’s _trying_ to enjoy his fucking _date_ and his goddamn fucking demons won’t fucking leave him alone.  
As much as Ed hates- despises, detests, loathes, repulses- it, he can’t stop his stomach flipping and lurching at every turn, can’t stop the cold, clammy feeling creeping over the back of his neck. His hands tighten in his lap, and he fixes his eyes on the flat stretch of road.

Roy’s a shitty driver, but it’s not his fault that Ed can’t keep his own fucking neuroses out of his head for one fucking second.

Raindrops spatter over the windscreen, and Ed’s nerves coil and tighten in time with the beat. Roy glances at him from the steering wheel and offers a half-grin, all embarrassment and _see? I told you._ Weirdly, this…kind of… helps. Which is fucking _stupid_ ; that kind of crookedly-self-deprecating expression usually makes Ed want to hit the person in question over the head with a test tube stand, but on Roy it’s…

Attractive. Really, really, really attractive.

Ed reiterates: shit.

They talk, aimlessly, which isn’t something Ed is used to; he realises he’s zoning out about halfway through a sentence, and the words get stuck on his tongue and he has to slow down, stop, and Roy is looking at him patiently, smiling, and the slow burn is building in Ed’s chest and heating his ribcage from the inside out.

“Sorry,” he says, “I- yeah. What was I saying?”

Roy flicks the switch to turn the windscreen wipers up a notch. Ed’s eyes are dragged after them as they scoop rainwater from the glass in a sheet. Hydrogen and oxygen and tiny chemical bonds; pollutants and trace elements from the atmosphere.

“Your first symphony,” Roy says, “when you were eleven. You were telling me about it.” He glances back again, and his smile says, _take your time_.

That’s new. Generally when this happens, everyone who isn’t Al scowls at him and rolls their eyes and purses their lips because _Ed, this is the seventh time in ten minutes that you’ve done that weird distant voice thing, and it’s freaking me out. Am I really that uninteresting? Jeez._  
Something heavy and sharp-spined is rolling around in Ed’s throat.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, “right, so, I’ve just turned eleven, and my mechanic- Winry; you met her, she threatened to castrate you- is tryin’ to get me to do all these fucking exercises for, like, therapy, you know? For the automail arm. Yeah.” The automail, the automail. The thing that makes him special. He wouldn’t be anyone remarkable if it wasn’t for the fucking automail; people only come and watch him perform because of it so they can go home and say, _Guess what I saw today? That one pianist with the metal arm! It’s really real!_  
 Ed hates- resents, abhors, execrates, abominates- that the automail makes him into some kind of souvenir. That people only know his fucking name because of the lump of metal attached to his fucking body; they don’t even _know_.  
They don’t even _know_ , fuck, what he went through, what _Al_ went through- all the fucking guilt and the shame and the _pain_ and all the shitty decisions and the black hole clawing at his insides, the nightmares and the screaming and the fucking therapy and the sharp-eyed doctors; for _what_? All that, and the only thing people see is the pretty shiny piece of fucking steel and chrome, and nothing of the thousands of ugly fucking layers of shit beneath it.  
He hates that all he is to them is another fucking piece of entertainment for them to gawk at and grow bored of after the novelty wears off.

(And it always does. It always, always does.)

 And that’s the only reason why Roy’s even _here_ , isn’t it? He’s just going to be another one of the ones who gets their fucking fill of him then dumps on the side of the road and walks away, feeling so fucking superior about themselves-

“-And, uh, I guess she and my granny have this really old piano and Win’s like, ‘...here, Ed, why don’t you just fucking _learn the piano_ for me?’ and I. Didn’t have anything better to fuckin’ do, so…yeah.”

The rain is pelting the windscreen wipers with an unrelenting onslaught. Ed shuts his mouth.

“That must have been difficult,” says Roy, and he’s staring out at the road pensively, brows drawn together. Ed swallows.

“I…guess. It was a good distraction from- everything.”

Roy nods. “I know the feeling,” he says, “when I got back from my stint in the army the doctors advised me to take up a hobby as part of the rehabilitation process.”

For a second, Ed can’t think of anything to say. This is- this is venturing into the Dark Shit territory, and Roy’s only spent about twenty minutes in Ed’s company; he said it casually, but even _Ed_ can tell that this is something deeply personal.

Equivalent exchange it is, then.

“What’d you choose?” Ed asks, and Roy half-laughs, mouth quirking into a smile.

“Knitting.”

Ed’s eyebrows rise before he can help himself. “No kidding?”

Roy grins at him without taking his gaze off the road, and Ed sits a little straighter in his seat.

“No kidding,” he promises, and Ed can’t help it; he grins back.

“Al- my brother- knits,” he says, “one time he made me a sweater. At least, I think it was supposed to be a sweater, it was, like, eight feet long and it didn’t have any sleeves.”

Roy laughs. It is beautiful. “That sounds like me, too,” he says, shaking his head, “my first project was a scarf. I didn’t even get halfway through; it was that damn stockinette stitch.”

“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” Ed tells him, “but it sounds complicated.”

“Most of the time, neither do I,” Roy assures him, and the sharp lines of barbed wires twisting along Ed’s nerves relax their choking grip. “Ah- we’re here.”

He puts the brakes on, and Ed’s gripping the sides of the seat again; they turn into the car park of the steakhouse. The vaguely obnoxious neon sign blinks at them through the sheeting rain and Ed raises an eyebrow. Roy catches his expression and smirks, manoeuvring the car into an empty space.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “It’s not actually as tacky on the inside as it looks.”

“Honestly,” says Ed, “I appreciate the sentiment, but at this point I’m so fucking hungry that I wouldn’t care if this was a shack in the middle of the woods.”

He’s only half joking.

“That may be so, but I would feel morally compromised if I were to go against every piece of etiquette I’ve ever been taught and take to a shack in the middle of the woods on our first date,” says Roy, and offers Ed a smile. Shit, shit, shit- Roy’s dressed in this _really_ flattering shirt and blazer combo, and there’s just a _flash_ of his collarbones showing above the shirt collar, and Ed feels remarkably inadequate in his concert black shirt and slacks.

“Shall we?” Roy asks, every fuckin’ _inch_ the perfect gentleman, and the engine has died but the thrumming continues inside Ed’s chest.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” he says, and they do.

 

 

Sprinting across a dark parking lot in the pouring rain has never been high on the list of things Ed wants to do before he dies, but it’s sure as hell an experience.

That might just be because of Roy, though- the moment of sudden panic in his (inky, deep, _knee-weakeningly dark_ ) eyes when he realised there was no umbrella in his car, his trying-to-be-sheepish-but-secretly-devastated crooked grin when he related this news to Ed, the bone-deep _relief_ flashing across his face when Ed shrugged and laughed and said, hey, no fuckin’ biggie, man, unless it’s acid rain there’s little to no chance of us being killed, and even then acid rain shouldn’t be _too_ strong considering the amount of pollution in this area-

Their jackets are rain-soaked and several shades darker than before when Ed shoulders the door open and they walk in; Roy flicks his hair out of his eyes, scattering water droplets and managing to look like a fucking movie star while he’s at it, and Ed’s stomach does a weird twisty thing and he tears his gaze away, towards the girl standing by the _please wait to be seated_ sign.

“Hiya,” she says with a smile; Roy walks forward into the light, folding his jacket carefully over his arm, and she blinks a few times, as his whole…face-body-clothing thing comes into relief. Ed understands her expression and relates to her blush on a deep level.  
“Do…do you have a reservation?”

While Roy deals with all that reservation shit, Ed looks around; Roy was right when he said the place wasn’t as tacky as the glowing neon sign outside made it look. There are a couple of plants on the windowsills and the lighting is kinda dim. It’s nice. Plus, they have an open kitchen, and through the sounds of low chatter and sizzling oil, Ed can smell something fucking _incredible_. Praise fuckin’ god for excellent steakhouses, and all that jazz.

“Edward,” Roy says, and Ed looks up. Fuck, that was his full name, alright. Shit.

“’Sup,” he says, stupidly.

“Some rather nice lighting fixtures,” replies Roy, with no fucking hesitation, and Ed can _feel_ something in his chest clenching and cracking and shattering into a thousand shining fucking pieces, and he is so, so utterly fucked.

(There’s the tiny voice in the back of his head that peers around the corner and reminds him that this is all too good to be true, this is all going to crash and burn, this is exactly what happened last time and look how that turned out- but Ed swallows hard and tells it very firmly to _fuck right off_ -)

They make their way through crammed tables and booths; some of the occupants are staring at them and Ed can’t tell if that’s just because of Roy- ‘cause, well, _Roy_ \- or if they’re being fucking _judged_ or some shit- either way, he feels justified in glaring back at them as they pass.

“Here you are,” says the girl brightly, stopping at a booth near the back, next to the window. Rain slides down the glass, but here, lit from the inside and separated by double glazing, it looks…kind of cool. “Someone’ll be over soon to take your orders! Enjoy your evening!”  
She deposits two menus on the shiny table surface and offers them one more smile, and then she’s gone, making her way back through the maze of tables.

They sit down, opposite each other, and Ed tests out the bounce of the booth seats surreptitiously while Roy separates their menus. Pretty good, Ed gives it an eight out of ten.

“Do you want to do the full four courses?” Roy asks, “Or-?”

“Hell yeah,” says Ed before he’s done talking. He supposes that usually this would be, like, some kind of dating faux –pas or some shit, but the kitchen is literally three fucking metres to their left and Ed can _see_ the steak slices sizzling in their little pans and he is _fucking starving_. “I don’t believe in half-assing shit. Let’s do this.”

“A very admirable quality,” says Roy, grinning, and flips to the first page of the menu. “So, starters? Or drinks first? I won’t have alcohol, since I’m driving, but…”

The menu has a very long list of things with hard to pronounce names and- thank fuck- pictures. Also, wine. Ed likes wine, but only in the _so, today was shit, let’s get painfully fucking drunk in a shitty bar somewhere no one will recognise me in order to forget how fucking fantastic life is_ capacity. Ah, what the hell, it’s a date. It’s going to inevitably end in shit anyway, so he might as well just get it over and done with, right?

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll get, like, something that’s…not red wine. I fucking hate red wine. Wait. I’m expected to be able to pronounce this shit?”

…That’s not a classy or refined thing to say at all; Ed needs to put the fucking brakes on and _slow down_ because, shit, he keeps forgetting that Roy isn’t actually accustomed to the trademark Edward Elric bluntness just yet.  (He says ‘just yet’ as if Roy’s ever going to want to see him again after this. Foolish hope’s never done a single thing for him in the past.)

Thankfully, Roy laughs. Ed cracks a weak grin.

“I recommend Cabernet Sauvignon,” he says, “It’s one of the few that don’t taste absolutely awful, and it goes very nicely with steak. Although I do agree, red is definitely an acquired taste; I think the only reason I’m able to stomach it is that I literally grew up in a bar.”

“You grew up in a bar?” Ed’s learning all kinds of fun things about Roy today. Also, _Cabernet Sauvignon._ Is it an indicator of how completely fucking done for he is that Ed can’t even bring himself to get mad at Roy’s obnoxiously perfect accent? “Shit, that’s awesome. Is it, like, a family business or something?”

Roy flips through the pages of the menu idly. “It belongs to my aunt. My parents died when I was quite young, and she took me in. It was an interesting childhood. Everything I know about alcohol I learned from her.” He looks up, and candlelight flickers over the planes of his perfect fucking face, and Ed immediately composes three bars of music just for him.

Is it any wonder that since that day ( _“See you Saturday,”_ ) all Ed’s pieces have been for Roy?  
He puts his fingers on the piano keys and all he can think about is Roy, Roy, Roy; triplets and sharps and demisemiquavers; the erratic leap of his pulse in his throat and Roy’s slow sweeping gaze- the piano is piles with sheets and sheets of music scribbled madly at three a.m, the places where he couldn’t get the notes on the paper fast enough marked by ink smudges, the points where his hand ached too much to form the shapes properly shown in the harsh spikes where there should be crotchets…

It’s too fucking _much_. No one should be able to take up this much space in Ed’s head; half the time there’s not even enough space for just _him_.

Roy is looking at him with a weird look on his face. Not, like, a _creepy_ weird, which is what Ed’s on the lookout for, it’s more like…soft. Kind of lost. It makes Ed’s cheeks heat; he drops his gaze to the table top feeling like a fucking schoolkid- not that he has much experience with that, but, you know. Idiomatic language and all that bullshit –and realises that he’s been creating a row of tiny rips on the side of the menu. Oops.

“So, uh- you know what you’re gonna eat?”

Smooth, Elric. Real fucking smooth.

Roy blinks, and Ed swallows. “Ah- yes. Is it too early on for me to say that I was momentarily distracted from the food by your extraordinary attractiveness?”

For a minute, all Ed can do is splutter and try not to give himself a fucking aneurysm; who _says_ shit like that? Who just comes straight out and fucking _says_ , you know, _oh hey, Ed, you look hot today!_ Not that Roy used the word ‘hot’. Which is good, because if he had, Ed would have broken the table over his face. Anyway.

He opens his mouth to say something; _what_ , he hasn’t sorted out yet, but _something_ , and-

“Are…are you ready to order?”

The waiter stands next to the table expectantly, notepad clean and pen poised. Ed hates him.

“-I think so,” says Roy, and he turns to look at Ed, who needs either some goddamn paper to write down the several hundred bars of music cramming his skull, or a lobotomy. He doesn’t really care which. “Are you ready?”

“I- yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Ed doesn’t remember much of the food itself, which is a damn shame, because it sure _looks_ fucking incredible; four fucking courses of hot, delicious foodstuffs but it’s like he’s scraping the plate clean before he’s even had a chance to savour the fucking taste.

  
It’s all Roy’s fault, of course; Roy with his velvety fucking voice and his impeccable taste in wine and conversation topics.  
Ed feels like he’s floating.  
 Even when the waiter raises an eyebrow sceptically at Ed when he’s ordering the wine, all _are you sure you’re old enough, young man_ , Ed doesn’t get _as_ mad as he usually probably would have done. (He’s still fucking mad though, and by usual standards he probably would’ve gotten thrown out of a place like this for the amount of swearing he used, but between Roy kicking him under the table- _Roy_ kicking him under the table; _Roy Mustang,_ kicking him under the table- and the waiter going pale and apologising within the first ten seconds of his rant, he managed to not lose his cool _completely_ ).

So the food happens- or at least, Ed thinks it _must_ have happened, even if he doesn’t fucking remember half of it- and Ed goes from starving to feeling comfortably full, and then Roy’s whipping out his fancy fucking credit card before Ed’s even had the chance to dive for his wallet. Fucking typical.

 

The air outside is frigid cold; even with the improvements Winry made last week Ed can feel the automail ice-burning his skin.

Roy tugs his collar closed; Ed makes the mistake of looking directly at him and- whoops!- his breath rushes out of him in a cloud. Roy’s hair is a shadow; his skin is marble-pale and marble-smooth; there’s the tiniest hint of red flush to his cheeks and nose and when their eyes meet, Ed swears to _god_ that time slows down.  
 It’s like that one time his metronome broke, and halfway through learning Liszt’s _Transcendental Etude No.4, “Mazeppa”,_ the speed went from fuckin’ Insane Mode to Leisurely Stroll, and Ed nearly fell off his stool. Point is, Roy’s eyes have some kind of slow motion superpower, and Ed’s mouth is utterly dry.

Roy looks like he’s going to say something, for a minute, and then he just kind of- hesitates. Stops. Retreats.

“What?” Ed asks. The thing (date. It was a date) had gone _well_ , hadn’t it? Ed had enjoyed himself. The food was fucking fantastic, the wine was good enough that he didn’t throw up and that’s all Ed really cares about if he’s honest; the dessert was _out of this world,_ and the company- well. The company was. Pretty fuckin’ great, too, actually.

Roy looks away.

“Nothing.”

“That was convincing,” Ed deadpans, and stops walking. Roy, a few paces ahead, stops too and turns back so they’re stood facing each other, like in some scene from a shitty romance movie. “Seriously, _what_? Did I do something wrong?” _Do you want me to leave?_

Roy’s eyebrow fly upwards, eyes widen. It would be kinda funny if Ed wasn’t so fucking _bewildered_.  “What? No! No, of course not, you were- it was perfect, Edward, believe me- it’s just-,”

“ _What_?” Roy’s gaze has travelled down to fix on the icy ground; sometime while they were inside making small talk over steak and Ed was trying to restrain himself from saying _fuck it_ and jumping Roy over coffee, the rain has frozen into a glassy sheen on the concrete. It’s beautiful. Beautiful, and really fucking dangerous. Ed’s shivering a little, and it’s not just because of the cold.

He looks up, and his eyes are as serious as Ed’s ever seen them. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he says.

“...Huh?”

Uncomfortable? Uncomfortable _how_ ; Ed’s the one who always- turns the conversation fucking stale, kills the atmosphere, slips up and screws up and fucks up everything that ever went right in the first place; what the fuck does Roy mean _uncomfortable_?

“It’s just- I apologise if I’ve been too forward, this evening,” Roy says. The wind is very, very cold against Ed’s skin. He thinks his ears might have gone numb. “I swear I’m not trying to- to _pressure_ you or _-,”_

 _“_ Woah, woah, hold it the fuck up,” Ed says, slightly hysterically, “You _what_? _Pressuring_ me? Into _what,_ exactly? You haven’t done _anything_!” Which is the problem, here, he thinks; like come _on._ Ed knows he hasn’t been subtle _at all_ in his constant staring at Roy’s lips, which isn’t his fault because the man looks _damn_ kissable.

Then he thinks, wait. I know what’s going on here.

And then he gets angry.

“-not usually be like this, but for some reason I can’t seem to-,”

“Shut up.”

Ed’s voice is lowered. He takes a step forwards. Roy either sees Ed’s fists curled at his sides or hears the note of anger in Ed’s voice; either way, he closes his mouth. Ed draws in a long breath.

“Why did you ask me to- go out. On a date. With you?” Ed asks, stumbling a little but he doesn’t care, he’s _mad_ Roy blinks.

“I- because I’m attracted to you. But that doesn’t-,”

“ _Shut up_.”

Roy stops talking. Ed takes another step.

“How old am I?”

This time, Roy seems to understands. “Eighteen,” he says, slowly. “Ed-,”

“Then why the _fuck_ are you treating me like I’m a fucking _child_?” Ed spits, raising his head to meet Roy straight on, striding the last few steps to jab his finger into Roy’s chest. “You _asked_ me on this- this fucking date; you asked _me_ and I said _yes_. You think I’d say yes if I thought you were gonna-  fucking _take advantage of me_ or something? Don’t fucking ask me on a date if you aren’t going to treat me like the fucking adult I am, asshole!”

There is a brief moment of silence in which Roy stares at Ed and Ed realises that he’s been shouting. In the middle of a car park. And that he’s gotten closer and closer to Roy, and that his hand has gone from barely touching Roy’s chest to being curled in his coat lapels.

“I-,”

“Are you gonna say something about how you’ve somehow manipulated me into going on a date with you and that you’re some kind of pervert for asking me out? ‘Cause if you are, then I’m fucking turning around and _walking_ home, Roy, I’ve had enough of being treated like a fucking _infant_ -,”

You think I’m stupid enough to let someone manipulate me, Roy? You think I haven’t had my own fucking share of _bad things_ happen to me? I know what it looks like when someone has _bad intentions_ , and in case you hadn’t fucking noticed, _I’m attracted to you, too_.

“I’m sorry for holding back so much,” says Roy. “I didn’t- I’ve been so worried about accidentally doing something wrong that I didn’t stop to consider your own feelings. Which is arguably the worst possible thing I could’ve done. I’m sorry, Ed.”

Oh. Right. An apology.

“…apology accepted,” Ed says, and there are a few more seconds of silence before he can’t fucking take it anymore and he yanks Roy down to kiss him.

Ed knows how it looks to other people- and he can’t fucking stand it. Like he’s being taken advantage of; like this is somehow _wrong,_ because _what_ , because there’s an age difference? Because he- _looks young_ , or whatever? (And if anyone- _anyone_ \- says any-fucking-thing about his goddamn height, someone’s going to die.)  
He can’t stand the idea that his age- eight-fucking-teen, don’t act like this is _wrong_ \- somehow doesn’t count for anything in some people’s eyes. And he knows that Roy’s not trying to make Ed mad; he knows that Roy’s just trying to do the right thing, but, _god_ , Ed’s had enough of miscommunication.

At least there’s no way of misconstruing _this_.

He draws back, breath steaming; Roy’s eyes inches away and wide as fucking saucers and Ed thinks, _good_.

“D’you fuckin’ get it, now?” He asks, and Roy licks his lips.

“I think so,” he replies, then, “wait, no, I think I’m still a bit confused- maybe you should tell me again-?” and Ed punches him in the arm, laughing.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, “And come on. I’m fucking freezing.”

“Shit- of course your automail. Are you alright?” Ed rolls his eyes.

“Don’t look so fucking _concerned,_ jeez. It’s fine, ‘s just uncomfortable if it’s out in the cold for too long. Where’d you leave the car?”

The car. The drive home, over the roads paved with ice; Roy’s a shitty fucking driver at the best of times and _this_ -

“It’s just over there,” Roy fishes his keys out of his pocket and they starts across the parking lot, shoes crunching over the ice. “I’m not sure if the roads are going to be safe…maybe we should, I don’t know, wait for the ice to melt.”

 _Yes, please_ , says Ed’s stomach fervently. “’wait for the ice to melt’?” he repeats. “Are you kidding me? Maybe we could rent a…room…or something.”

Oh, fuck yeah. This plan is some good _shit_. A room, all to themselves- _wink, wink, nudge, nudge-_ with the bonus of not having to drive over fucking Antarctica while they’re at it-

“I think they’ve salted the roads,” Roy says, peering out at the street. “Oh- it isn’t icy at all; it’s just over here… isn’t that something to do with the heat from the tires or something? It’s only next to the pavement where we’ll need to be careful, I suppose…”

He looks back, and at Ed’s pout, he laughs. “Sorry. But I don’t think your brother would be very impressed if I don’t get you home tonight.”

Eye roll. But that’s true. Al’ll flip shit if Ed isn’t back soon. And, looking out, Ed can see that Roy’s telling the truth: the road itself is clear of ice, save for tiny trails of crystals near the edges of the gutter where the tires don’t run. His automail is starting to ache, too; the bone-deep fucking ebb and flow of pure pain is making his teeth clench.

“Okay,” he says, “Just- be careful, for fuck’s sake.”

When Roy looks at him again, he’s got that serious look again, the one that says, _I am telling the absolute truth; I am sincere in this no matter what._ “I will.”

“Cool. Can you open the fucking door before my fucking arm falls off?”

 

 

Roy turns the heating up to full and puts the radio on in the background while they drive; after the windscreen has cleared from the sudden change in temperature inside the car (Ed puts his feet up on the dashboard and leans back; “I fucking _love_ heated seats. Fuck.”) he pulls out of the driving space- Ed pretends that all his muscles didn’t tense at once when the tires struggled for grip on the still-iced over car park ground for a fraction of a second- carefully and exits onto the main road.  
  
Ed tips his head back and watches him drive, resisting the urge to just fucking lean over and kiss him again. Fucking hell; Roy’s a good fucking kisser. Mmm.

“Take a picture,” Roy says without looking away from the road, a hint of amusement in his voice, “It lasts longer.” The phrase is so fucking- _incongruous_ , with Ed’s running image of Roy Mustang; he bursts out laughing, and then he can’t fucking _stop_.

“Is something funny?” Roy asks, but Ed can see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Roy Mustang, suave Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome, is actually a giant fucking _dork_.

Ed wants to write him a twelve-page concerto. He wants to dedicate a prelude, an etude, a sonata, to him. There is music running through Roy, whether he can see it or not; Ed knows. Strains of music in his blood, in the way he tilts his head when he’s thinking, in the way his hair falls in his eyes a little  and he has to flick it out of the way with that pretentious fucking gesture that’s probably meant to look sexy but is actually really fucking annoying. There’s music in the long pale column of his throat, the hollows of his collarbones, the cheekbones like fucking knives under his skin.  
There’s something in a musician that calls to other musicians, and Roy could be a _world class_ musician if he wanted to be. The posture, the voice, the long, delicate fingers. Ed wants to teach him piano, Ed wants to teach him the violin, Ed wants to teach him guitar.

His hands. Oh, fucking _Christ_ , Roy’s _hands_. Ed…cannot be sitting in a car next to him thinking about this shit; he needs to look away and stop thinking about Roy’s hands on him and Roy’s fingers touching him, _if you know what I mean_ -

“Knitting,” says Ed, and goes bright red. “You- you mentioned- knitting. Do you- what else do you do? You can’t just spend your days knitting and watching me play the piano, right? What goes on in your life, Roy Mustang?”

Roy raises an eyebrow, and Ed knows he hasn’t fucking fooled him one bit. _Fuck_.

“You’d be surprised,” he tells Ed, and smiles a bit. “Well, I suppose there _is_ more to life than going to your concerts and knitting half-scarf-half-eldritch-horror abominations. I work in government; foreign relations, that kind of thing.”

The _government_? Shit. That’s…not what Ed expected. At all.

“Wait, so you’re like a _diplomat_? Jesus. That’s pretty heavy shit.”

Roy half-grins, and shakes his head. “Well, sort of. You have to work your way up the ranks to become a proper diplomat. I’m not quite there.” The unspoken _yet_ at the end of his sentence makes Ed raise his eyebrows.

“So you’re pretty ambitious, huh? Must be nice.”

Roy frowns. “You say that like you have no ambition whatsoever.”

“That’s ‘cause I don’t.”

“What about your music?”

“Yeah? What about it?” Ed hasn’t been ambitious for a long fuckin’ time. After all; he’s hit the top, hasn’t he? Three years ago, he was fifteen and playing at fancy dinner parties for people in suits. Winning awards. Al still has the trophies, collecting dust on the mantelpiece. He won’t let Ed throw them away.

Roy is silent, and Ed shakes his head. “’S not like I didn’t _used_ to want to, I don’t know, be the best pianist in the world. ‘S just now I’m…shit, I don’t know. It’s like, I’ve got nothin’ to aim for now. I don’t care, or anything,” he says quickly, even though he kinda _does_ , “I’m earning cash, enough to pay the bills and get Al a kickass education, and that’s all that really matters. But I’m not…I’m not a fuckin’ prodigy anymore.”

It’s always like that, isn’t it? When you’re seven years old, you’re a child prodigy. When you’re eleven years old, you’re a genius. When you’re fifteen, you’re gifted _._ And when you’re eighteen, you’re just good at playing the fucking piano.

“You don’t need to be a prodigy to be exceptional, Edward,” says Roy quietly, and Ed goes still. Roy is gripping the steering wheel, not, like, super tight, but…gripping it. And he’s staring hard at the road, but his eyes are kinda…far away. “I’ve been to a lot of concerts,” he says, “And- I’m not trying to patronise you, I swear to that- you probably know a lot better than I do, but your music…it’s different. There’s music, and then there _music_ , you know?”

“There’s music and there’s music with slightly more emphasis?” Says Ed, sceptically. “Music’s music. It’s all just technicalities. Whether or not you deviate from the notes, whether you add in some fuckin’ pauses here and there. ‘S not magic.”

“There are better and worse degrees of music,” says Roy, “and I’m telling you, you’re something special. I’m not- I know it sounds like I’m trying to use a bad pickup line but I’m being utterly serious when I tell you that listening to you play is a completely different experience to listening to a different pianist play. You lose yourself in it. The audience is absolutely under your spell. It’s mesmerising.”

Oh Jesus _fuck,_ Ed can feel himself getting warm again; Roy just comes out and _says_ shit like that with no fucking warning and it’s _driving Ed crazy_. 

(And why would Roy say those things, anyway? It’s not as if they’re _true_. It’s just another tactic, just another _bad pickup line,_ just another thing that people say to get what they want. What they always, always want.)

“Shut up,” he says, and Roy turns to look at him, face almost unbearably open and honest, and Ed cant- can’t-

“ _You’re_ mesmerising, Ed.”

(No you’re not. You’re just a tragic backstory and a metal arm, and no one actually _cares_ about you, they just want to fuck you and leave just to tell their fucking _friends_ about it-)

“Fucking hell,” Ed says, because it’s one thing being complimented but it’s another thing being complimented when the compliments are _lies_. “I get it, I’m fuckin’ great; can we stop with the praise now?”

He keeps his tone as light and casual and possible, but maybe there’s something in his body language that Roy notices because he goes quiet, frowning. Oh, hell.

“Do you…do you not believe me?”

Ed _can’t fucking do this_. Especially not today. Not today, after he just had a kickass fucking date (not over yet, not over yet); not today, after he just had a kickass fucking _kiss_ , not _today_ , with the ice and the cold and the panic crowding the back of brain just fucking waiting for him to let his fucking guard down-

“Of course I don’t fucking believe you,” he snaps, and Roy’s eyes widen, and for fuck’s _sake_ this wasn’t supposed to turn into a fucking angst-fest. Guess you can’t get away from tradition; Ed _always_ manages to fuck it up, and although tonight was supposed to be the exception, apparently the universe doesn’t give a single shit what Ed wants. “I’m not- I’m not _amazing._ I’m just fucking _normal_ , why do people always have to- I hate it when people _lie_ to me to get me to like them, alright, it pisses me the _fuck_ off and I hate-,”  
He breaks off.  
He’s said too much, _again_ ; Roy didn’t ask for his fucking life story and Ed really needs to stop telling people all about his fucking neuroses the second they show the slightest bit of interest-

“Ed, I don’t know what you’ve gone through before,” Roy says carefully, “and it sounds like- it sounds as if you’ve had some bad people try to manipulate you before.” Ed’s hands curl into fists in his lap. _Bad people_. Yeah, you could fuckin’ say that. Roy risks a glance in his direction, and Ed has to bite his lip _hard_ to stop himself from breaking down and fucking sobbing all over Roy’s nice seats,  “And quite honestly I’d like to find them and _kill_ them for making you doubt yourself like this, because- I wouldn’t lie to you. I wouldn’t. You _are_ amazing. This isn’t a ploy, or a trick. You’re incredible. Please believe that.”

And see, he’d _like_ to. He fucking _would_ ; Ed fucking _wants_ to believe it, he never _wanted_ to- to hate himself, or whatever, it’s just that ever single fucking _asshole_ who ever tried to use him said _exactly_ the same thing, and he’s fucking _done_ with believing other people’s fucking compliments.

“There’s no such thing as altruism,” Ed says, and there’s gravel lining his throat. He can’t fucking bring himself to look at Roy’s face. He knows- he _knows_ \- that Roy’s eyes are gonna be full of fucking _pity_ and the one thing he hates more than people using him is people _pitying_ him. At least abusive dickheads are fucking _upfront_ about it.

“This isn’t altruism, this is me carrying out my duty as a citizen of Amestris to tell the truth,” says Roy without hesitating, and his voice makes Ed look up and look into his eyes. There’s nothing romantic about this, this brutal, raw fucking honesty and _pleading_ in Roy’s eyes.  Ed kind of hates him, kind of wants to cry, and kind of doesn’t hate him at all. Ed’s never seen Roy look like this before- no perfection, no marble, no ice-statue, no restraint.  
Just bare emotion. It’s fucking terrifying, in the sense that Ed’s fucking slipping off the edge of whatever glass-sharp he’s been holding onto for however many months now.

“First dates aren’t meant to be like this,” Ed tells him, clearing his throat. Roy cracks a half-chuckle, looks out at the street. The lampposts rushing by are casting a warm shine over the road; patches of ice next to the dividers glisten in the glow. “You’re supposed to save all the angsty shit for at least, like, the second one.”

“Does that mean we’re going to have a second one?”

Ed splutters, feeling himself going red; he opens his mouth to say something well-though-through and smart.

 “Well-,”

 

The lorry comes out of nowhere.

Actually, that’s not quite true- the truck skids across the lanes and ploughs into the divider, wheels spinning frantically for purchase on the ice, and topples, almost in slow motion, towards them.  
But Ed doesn’t remember that until later.  
In the moment, all he sees is a flash of glaring headlights, the squeal of tires, and then a crunch and a dull blast and a pain in his shoulder where his seatbelt jerks and numb shock trickling through his system as the waves break over him and the world flips and spins like a coin tossed high into the air.

Everything goes black and unfeeling for a period of time- Ed doesn’t know how long he’s out, but when he opens his eyes again there’s broken glass spread over the dashboard like diamonds and a deflated airbags punctured through with glimmering shards.

“Fuck,” he says, unfastening his seatbelt- ouch- and looks over at Roy.

Roy, who is groaning and blinking dimly into the light. He has a gash on his forehead. Ed registers faintly that the car must have flipped over and now they’ve come to a stop next to the divider on the other side of the road. The lorry is on its side, smoke pouring out from the cab. There is blood on the windows. Everything is tinted white and ghostlike. Somewhere, someone is calling an ambulance.

“Roy?” Ed asks, and Roy raises his head, fighting his seatbelt for a second before it releases and he slumps back against the seat, staring with narrowed eyes out the shattered windscreen.

“We’re alive,” Roy says, a hint of disbelief in his voice, and coughs, wincing. “Ed, are you alright? Your head- shit, you’re bleeding.” His eyes are wide and concerned. Ed furrows his brow. It hurts.

“So are you,” says Ed, and his voice sounds strange. Distant. Cold chills run over his skin, his neck, his back; his hands are so cold. His chest hurts- the seatbelt? No, he took it off. Shit. The ice and the lorry and the crash/flip/smash/crunch/flash/spin and nausea rises in his throat and the front of the car is crumped like a tin can, the windows buckled inwards. Glass shifts as Ed raises his hands to stare at them. They’re shaking.

“We need to call the ambulance. Shit, this is- what the hell happened? Was it the lorry?”

Roy’s talking, but Ed- the rising panic is suffocating him; his chest _burns_. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He needs- he needs to get out of the car. His leg is trapped under the misshapen glovebox but it doesn’t fucking _matter_ because it’s made of metal. Or is it? He’s ten years old and they’ve crashed the car; Al is screaming in the passenger seat and the steering wheel is slick with blood under Ed’s hands. Al. Is Al okay? They have to get Al first, they have to get al out, save him, he’s my only brother, you don’t understand, it’s _Al,_ not Al, not Al, don’t let him _die,_ and it’s all Ed’s _fault_ , oh hell-

“Ed, you’re having a panic attack. What do you need? I’m here. Ed, I need you to tke deep breaths for me-,”

“No,” he gasps out, vision blurring and he kicks at the buckled door, “No, I need- I need to get out, I need to get out, let me the fuck _out_ -,”

The door bursts open to its full extent and bounces back again, almost closing but Ed’s halfway through the doorway and stumbling, fighting his way out into the cold, breath steaming out and fucking hell there’s snow, flakes drifting out of the sky to land on his freezing skin. His knees hit the ground. He hunches over, shaking, right arm curled against his body.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Breathe, he has to breathe- but he _can’t_ , there isn’t enough air in the world to fill his fucking lungs; his hands are curling and uncurling, the automail rattling and Ed grips the metal fingers with his flesh ones, staring at them. They’re not _his,_ are they? No. No. He’s so cold. He’s so cold.

Roy, sinking to his knees in front of Ed; he takes his hands, wincing a little at the coldness of the metal on his skin. “Ed, what do you need? Is there something you can do to ground yourself?”

“Fucking killing me would be fucking great, thanks,” Ed growls, clenching his jaw _hard_ and Roy shakes his head, frowning, lips pressed tight together.

“No. No, it really wouldn’t, believe me. You can grip my hands as hard as you want. Can you take a breath and hold it for five seconds, Ed?”

“ _Yes_ , of course I fucking can, I’m not _five_ ,” He says, although actually he’s really not fucking sure if he can because his heart is beating fast fast fast and there’s not enough air, and Roy lets out a half laugh, squeezing his fingers.  
 The air against his face, the ground under his knees, the stinging on the back of his hand and his cheeks where the glass cut him. Real. Real, real, real.

“I know you’re not,” says Roy, “Sorry. Breathe out, slowly. I’m going to count you in, okay? From ten. Can you open your eyes when I reach zero?”

“Fucking _maybe_ ,” Ed says; he hadn’t even noticed his eyes were tight shut but hey, they were, weren’t they? Darkness and those strange bursting lights behind your eyelids; images burned into his irises (the car, the blanket of crushed glass, the blood on the steering wheel, police sirens flash past in quick succession and Ed refuses to throw up). The automail rattles, rattles, rattles; his chest tightens, painful, and he chokes down another gulp of air. _Five seconds. Breathe out. Five seconds. Breathe in. Five seconds._

“Ten,” says Roy, and squeezes his hands again. Hand _s_ , plural, and it’s amazing, the pressure sensors on the automail; they’re amazing. Ed remembers Winry engineering them specially so he could play the piano easier; right after- after-

The crash, the smell of acrid fuel burning and _Al,_ his _little brother_ , bleeding and unresponsive in the passenger seat and it was _all his fault_ ; a fuck up, a fuck up, a fuck up-

“Eight,” says Roy, “You’re doing really well, Ed, just keep breathing,”

“Don’t fucking _patronise_ me, you bastard,” Ed says: _you’re doing really well_ , _keep breathing_. He’s trying. He’s trying.

“I know. I’m sorry. You are, though. Six.”

Six. He was six when he started learning the violin, Ed remembers that. The memories are fizzy, but he can still feel the bow string taut against his fingers and the smooth polished wood of the instrument. It had sounded like a cat being murdered, for the first week or so.

“Five,” says Roy, and Ed forces air into his lungs. To cold; he can’t keep it in or it’ll burn him; he remembers oxygen masks and not being able to see and _where was Al, where’s my little brother?_

“Keep breathing, Ed, I’m here. You’re safe.”

Safe? He’s not safe, he’s just been in a fucking car crash, for fuck’s sake. Or is he in one right now? Ed doesn’t know, doesn’t know; he can’t open his eyes and the world is tilting; are those sirens real or is it the memories pulling him under?

“Four.”

Four years old and his mother died. Alone and afraid and with Al clinging to him by her graveside; wilted flowers all tied up in bouquets and he hadn’t known how to be sad back then, not properly. All he knew then was _anger_ , anger at his fucking, fucking, _fucking_ father for leaving them, leaving _her;_ Ed remembers his hands balled into angry fists, teeth clenched so hard he thought they might crack.

“Three.”

Had Hohenheim been around when he was three? Ed didn’t remember, didn’t want to remember, wanted to break something and punch something and preferably both at once; the spinning behind his eyes has quietened and his head is filled less with cotton wool and more with thorns, now. There’s a kind of clarity in pain, from the sharpness of it, and Ed can at least _think_. Roy’s hands are warm against his skin. He’s gripping them so hard. Shit.

“One.”

He opens his eyes, breath shuddering in and out. Roy is kneeling in front of him. His lip is bleeding, and his cheekbone is bruised.

“Fuck,” says Ed again, and his throat is hoarse, as if he’s been fucking _screaming_  or some shit. Oh. Carefully, he unclenches his fingers from Roy’s. “-Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” says Roy, shaking his head. “Did I- I’m sorry, I don’t know if you use those grounding methods yourself; those are just what I use.”

 _Those are just what I use_.

“Oh. Fuck. Yeah, I guess, I mean- I don’t. Usually. Do anything. You have the- thing, too?”

“Panic attacks?” Roy raises an eyebrow. “Yes, although not usually in the daytime. They tend to happen at night, and when I hear gunshots or fireworks, that kind of thing. Relic from the war.” He shrugs, and his smile is bitter, and Ed thinks maybe he understands.

“Thanks,” he says. “For putting up with my shit.”

Roy’s eyes are very steady on his. “Ed, I’m sorry. I should have been paying more attention; I should have been watching the road. This is my fault. I- I can’t ask you to forgive me, but-,”

Ed kisses him. It’s not very clean, and it’s not very deft, because Ed’s heart is still fucking racing and he’s still kind-of-really-fucking shaky, but he leans forwards and upwards and his mouth is on Roy’s, swallowing the rest of his words.  
 Roy doesn’t move for second, lips slightly parted, tense- as if he expected Ed to, what, hit him? Punch him in the jaw?- but then, slowly, he seems to realise that Ed’s determined to get a good fucking kiss out of this and he relaxes, lifting a hand hesitantly to rest on Ed’s shoulder, parting Ed’s lips with his tongue and pressing back, warm and deep.  
Ed’s not very good with words, but he’s found that so far he generally manages to get his point across through force, so when Roy kisses him back Ed kisses back _harder._

 _It’s not your fault, dumbass,_ he tries to say, and he doesn’t care about the broken glass they’re kneeling on, or the blood drying sticky on his fingertips, and he flattens his palms on either side of Roy’s face, tongue slipping between Roy’s lips to flick at the roof of his mouth.  
Roy, apparently, isn’t the type to just sit back and let Ed do whatever the fuck he wants, because he smiles into the kiss and slides his hands up Ed’s arms, fingertips sliding into his hair and trailing down his back as he heightens the pace; Ed has forgotten what he kissed him for in the first place. Fucking _hell,_ Roy is a good kisser. After the fucking disaster of a first date this has been so far, Ed figures that _this_ is a pretty good reparation for what happened.

Eventually, the police and ambulance show up, sirens wailing, lights flicker-flashing over the ice and reflecting off the various strewn and smoking pieces of metal, and they have to draw apart, breathing heavily, hair mussed and cheeks flushed.

“Wow,” says Ed, and Roy –laughs, sitting back on his heels.

“My thoughts exactly,” he replies, and Ed is about to say something snappy when a woman in a luminescent jacket taps him on the shoulder.

“Were you involved in the crash?”

“Uh, yeah. We were in that car.” Ed points to the car- and now that he’s thinking about it, he hasn’t had a proper look at it yet-

Oh. Wow. It’s…it’s a fucking _wreck._ Ed’s side has been almost completely crushed; the windows are all smash and there are huge dents in the sides. His passenger side door is hanging by one hinge- although that might be from where he kicked it to get it open. The tires are steaming and half-melted by the looks of it; fuel drips steadily from the exhaust pipe and smoke rises in twining columns from the bonnet. Ed lets out a low whistle.

“Fuck,” he says, and this time it’s half appreciative, half _wow, Roy, I really hope your insurance covers that, because_ damn _, son._

Pretty soon after that, the ambulance people take charge, and everything becomes a blur. They’re chivvied into the back of an ambulance, where a man with a stern face inspects their wounds and takes down their details. Roy’s phone is smashed, but Ed’s- miraculously- survived. He holds it up for Roy to see, grinning as best he can with seven stitches in the side of his face.

“The power of Nokia,” he says, “not even a fuckin’ scratch. How’s that for marketing?”

Roy looks glumly at the spiderweb cracks and tangled innards of his own phone and gives a deep, long-suffering sigh.

The police come in t talk to them at some point to get their side of the story- Ed breaks in numerous times to enforce the fact that, you know, _it was the lorry that fucking swerved across the entire goddamn road, totalling the car and almost fucking_ killing _us in the process_ \- _so don’t say anything about Roy’s fucking driving, okay, he wasn’t doing_ anything _wrong._

Then they’re driving away, speeding down the street in the ambulance towards the hospital, and Ed’s calling Al while the increasingly frustrated doctors are trying to get him to take his shirt off so they can look at his seatbelt injuries, and Roy is attempting to stop Ed from swearing loudly at them for interrupting his call.

Then they’re coming to a stop at the hospital, and there are wheelchairs involved, and Ed’s complaining violently, and Roy is trying not to laugh, and Ed _does_ realise that the doctors are just trying to do their job but he’s not letting them put that fucking needle anywhere _near_ him-

Gauze and dressings and cream and Al and Winry arrive, smelling of fresh cold air and Ed’s grinning at them while they stand in the doorway, horrified.

“What _happened_?”

“Crazy lorry driver tried to kill us.”

“You were in a _car crash?_ ”

“Yeah- wait, it wasn’t his fault- Win, stop it, _it wasn’t his fault_ -!”

 

And then it’s fucking two a.m or some other stupidly stupid hour, and they’re standing on the hospital steps while Roy waits for his friend (“You sure you don’t want a lift?” “I appreciate the offer, but I think your friend Winry wants to kill me, and I’d rather not cause another car crash by distracting the driver while being violently murdered.” “What the hell d’you mean _cause another,_ you didn’t cause the _first_ one, idiot!”) and Ed waits for inspiration to strike so he can think of a better way to phrase _I don’t want to say I had a good time because of, like the whole_ car crash _thing, but…you’re a great fucking kisser and you told me a bunch of really personal shit and you kind of fucking helped me not hyperventilate myself to death, so…wanna have a second try at going on a normal date with me?_

“So, uh,” says Ed, and Roy’s face is kind of resigned, like he thinks he knows what’s coming, like he thinks Ed’s about to tell him to never speak to him again or some shit. “That was… probably the most interesting date I’ve ever been on.”

Roy cracks a smile, but there’s no humour in it. “I suppose I have that one thing going for me. Maybe I should start warning people before taking them out: _slight danger of near-death, proceed with caution_.”

“Nah,” says Ed, “don’t warn _people._ Warn _me_.”

The look of slight puzzlement that lashes over Roy’s face is a sweet fuckin’ reprieve from the reserved, detached mask he pulls carefully over his features. “What do you-,”

“I _mean_ ,” he says, “it’s my turn to pick the next date place. If you’re. Still. Interested. I mean.”

Because, shit, he’d been so pumped up with adrenaline and whatever fucking painkiller they gave him back in the Antiseptic-Smelling Hospital Room Of Doom that he hadn’t even stopped to consider that, you know, maybe Roy _doesn’t_ actually want to date him anymore. That maybe now that Roy’s had a sneak peek into Ed’s fucked up mess of a brain, he wants to get the hell out of dodge, and Ed’s just building up his fucking hopes in preparation for them getting dashed brutally to the floor again when-

“Of _course_ I’m still interested,” says Roy, blinking, “But- I mean, I took you to dinner and we ended up in the _hospital._ That doesn’t exactly scream ‘great dating material’, does it?”

“Eh,” says Ed, “all the ‘great dating material’ dates I’ve ever been on never ended up anywhere particularly fucking fantastic for me, and I think I’d actually say that compared to most of them, this was one of the better dates I’ve ever had, so…I think I’ll take my chances, if. That’s. Alright with you.”

Roy smiles, properly this time, tentatively this time, and jesus _fuck_ they’ve shared not one but two searing fucking make out sessions already and he’s _still_ trying to restrain himself- “That’s more than alright with me,” he says.

“Great,” says Ed, “I’ll text you when I decide where we should have our next car crash.”

And then he leans up on his tiptoes- _not_ because he’s short; it’s because they’re standing on a slope, dammit- and Roy leans down, and they kiss again, short and sweet but more than enough to take Ed’s fucking breath away like some fainting maiden in a renaissance painting, and then Winry’s leaning over the gearbox to honk the horn loudly at them and they break apart, Ed glaring in her direction, and Roy laughing.

“I’ll see you later,” he promises, and Ed turns back one last time to look at him, to take him all in; even scraped and bruised and with a plaster on his cheekbone he still manages to look kind of perfect. And what’s even better is that Ed knows, now, that he’s _not_ fucking flawless, and he’s not without his own fucking issues, and, you know, for an evening full of trauma and exhaustion, he’s feeling pretty good about it, truth be told.

 

 

************************************************************************************************************

 

Ed lets himself into their apartment, throwing the stacks of music ahead of him and kicking the door shut behind, taking a deep breath- he smells takeout. He peers around the corner and-yep- the lights are on in the kitchen. He gives it three seconds, max, before-

Roy pokes his head though the door to the hallway. “Hey, love,” he says, and Ed walks forwards into his arms, shoving his head into his neck to breathe in the comforting Roy-smell and link his arms around his back. Roy pets at his hair, running his fingers through the ponytail and tweaking his bangs, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“How are you?”

Ed yawns in response and Roy laughs, leading them through to the kitchen. The trophies gleam at them from the shelf. The takeout containers are stacked on their tiny table and Ed gives a wail of pure joy at the sight of them.  
“I love you,” he says letting go of Roy’s waist in favour of grabbing his face and pulling him down to kiss him messily, “I love you, and I love takeout, and I’m so fucking hungry, you have _no idea-,”_

Roy’s laughing, and Ed’s dragging out the chair and prying open containers, and by the end of the evening there’ll be rice all over the floor but he doesn’t care at all.

“How was your day?” he asks, mouth full of sweet and sour chicken, “you do anything top secret?”

Roy sneaks his chopsticks past Ed’s and steals a piece of chicken. “I don’t think we did anything top secret today, no,” he muses, “Maybe a little bit. Oh well. Better not tell you.”

“Fuck off,” Ed scoffs, “you tell me everything. Even the top secret shit. How else would I know about the plan to send envoys to-,”

Roy leans forward, perfectly blank-faced, and shoved an entire spring roll into Ed’s mouth, mid- sentence. He splutters, chews, and by the time he swallows he’s already got a dumpling ready and _god damn it Roy, get back here, lemme get my fucking_ revenge-!

 

Domestic bliss is overrated, Ed thinks, later, when they’re curled up in bed, covers pulls over their heads, forehead to forehead, chest to chest, legs twined together and breathing in tandem. He’d much rather have impromptu food fights over the dinner table and clothes shed over the carpet as they stumble, electric, into the bedroom to collapse on the bed, laughing and with sweet chilli sauce in their hair, rolling and fighting for control and always, always grinning, even when one of them inevitably gets stabbed with one of Roy’s stray knitting needles.

Fuck ‘bad first dates’, thinks Ed, and lifts up Roy’s arm so he can wriggle underneath it, pressing warm kisses to Roy’s neck before he settles down, eyes closed and smile tugging at his mouth still, to be lulled into sleep by the steady beat of his lover’s heart. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...........look at [my tumblr](http://www.kattobinguwu.tumblr.com) lol ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°)  
>  also thank u to [fee](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/SmutJunkie) for teaching me about knitting ;D


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